You’ve left your black slippers beside the shoe-rack; ready to tuck your feet into them when you’re back from work. There aren’t any bright shades that blind the eye, just the warm browns, reds and a streak of golden here and there. I see you’ve hanged a family portrait above the sofa and I can tell, it’s what catches the guest’s eyes first; what you want their eyes to catch first. I lightly trace the walls with the tips of my fingers as I walk deeper into the apartment, waiting at the doorway of the kitchen long enough to catch last night’s dishes sitting quietly in the sink. I don’t need to look too hard to be able to find where you’ve kept the detergent; it’s where you’d always keep them – in the cabinet below the sink, on the left, in a margarine case. You’ve left the kitchen monochrome, with the only pop colour being the crimson utensils’ basket.
The waves kissed my feet. The sun’s youth painted my face red. Those sandy feet, those sand castles, somehow I could find their laughter afloat the sea, hear them splash water as the waves slashed the rocks ashore, feel the redness of their faces as the sun yawned and spilled the world with light. My dark world with light. Shedding light on that shelf of memories. It’s almost as though I could hear him call out, “Dad! Would you look at all these shells I collected?” or how he’d start building another sand castle as one got drowned by the enemy, by the Sea. How he’d race with me across the shores, get his tiny feet all sandy, his bright face ablaze, that twinkle in his eyes. That look of extreme happiness. Just one visit and they all come gushing back to me. Like how waves keep coming back to the shores. Like how you’d always find the sun smiling back at you every morning. All in one flash. Making me feel memory’s warmth as the cold wind brushed my face.